Legends of Luternia

by Thomas Sabel

“How?” asked Ulrik.

  Abbot Peter explained, “We’ve sent word to Christian- yes, we have our ways- and he has agreed to continue the search for the healing flower with Barty. Odd, though, Brother Salvador has never heard of that kind of flower.”

  “But the finder must be one of royal blood,” Ulrik tried to explain.

  “And Barty’s your blood cousin, right?” asked the abbot, knowing the answer all the time. “Then he should be able to retrieve the nectar as well. Put those worries behind you. As we are taught, each day has sufficient worries for itself.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Brother Salvador was already in Edgar’s room when the abbot and Ulrik arrived. “Uley, that you?” Edgar pleaded. Bandages covered his eyes. Ulrik moved to his friend’s side and took hold of his large hand between his own, examining the deep fissures and broken nails of the rough and calloused hands.

  “I’m here with you, Edgar. They’re going to remove the bandages soon.”

  “Uley, I be OK? Eyes be OK?”

  “We’ll find out in a minute.” Brother Salvador said and then nodded to Ulrik.

  The prince explained to his friend, “The brother will take off the bandages now. I’ll be right here as close as I can be.”

  With a delicate touch, Brother Salvador slowly removed the bandages. Edgar winced when they clung to his skin. The brother applied a sponge dampened in one of his special ointments to ease the bandage off. Working slowly, he revealed Edgar’s face. The price Edgar paid to save Ulrik’s life became visible. The sand borne by the strong desert winds had worn away his facial features. Gone were his eyebrows, most of his lips, and the outer edges of his ears. The nose had been burnt away to a small nub. His skin looked like bleached, dried parchment. Little was left of the Edgar whom Ulrik had grown up with, except his eyes; which now entreated the prince.

  “Not too bad,” commented Brother Salvador. “Mine looked worse,” revealing the source of his scarring. “It appears worse than it is,” he assured. “But he’ll never have the same face as he once did.”

  Ulrik kept hold of his friend’s hand and knelt at the side of the bed. “I’m sorry, Edgar, I’m sorry,” Ulrik sobbed, his words barely intelligible. Edgar put his other still bandaged hand on Ulrik’s head.

  “Uley, I be OK. Edgar helps his Uley,” Edgar smiled as far as his tightened skin would allow—the wounded comforting the whole.

  During the next few days Edgar recovered quickly. With Ulrik’s help he was up and walking through the corridors, his skin far too tender to be exposed to the sun. The damage to his eyes proved to be temporary. As Ulrik led him through the many halls and passageways connecting the abbey’s many buildings- ones he was struggling to learn—he realized that no one they met stared at Edgar’s face. Instead they greeted him as a hero for saving Ulrik’s life. After two weeks, Edgar’s recovery was nearly complete as was his stay in the hospital.

  “The real question is what would be best for Edgar,” exclaimed Abbot Peter to Ulrik. The abbot was growing exasperated over the prince’s demand that Edgar stay with him in his room. “Everyone has special tasks here at the abbey, and I believe both yours and Edgar’s will become clear as each of you lives his own life,” said the abbot.

  “He saved me from death twice; I owe it to him to take care of him now. Look at him, he can barely see, he’s still weak, he needs me,” said Ulrik.

  Prester John, who had been sitting nearby as the two argued, finally spoke, “You don’t owe him anything, Ulrik.” Ulrik, shocked by the comment, stared at him as Prester John continued, “Edgar did what he knew was right. Being pulled from death’s grasp is a gift received, that is all- a gift given in pure form. Pure gifts carry no debt, especially gifts of life.” The hard looking man was staring off into an imaginary distance as he spoke and a tear attempted to form in the corner of his eye. John shook his head to bring his thoughts back to the conversation. “Ulrik, listen to the abbot. He knows what he is talking about.”

  By the end of the discussion, Ulrik agreed and assisted in settling Edgar in his new room. The abbot decided that for the immediate time, the best place would be with the Needful Ones, as those who had been cast-off and rejected were known. While Edgar looked over his room, a short woman dressed in layers of fabric came in, “Hello, Edgar. I’m Mrs. Hemplewhite, one of the sisters who will be with you.” She took his hands into her own, careful of the bandages, and looked way up into his eyes as she was not much taller than his beltline. “You’ve had quite a lot of adventures, haven’t you? Everyone here is waiting to hear about them.”

  “They are?” Edgar’s eyes brightened. He let her take him by the hand into the room where the abbot had been mobbed by the Needful Ones. Tentatively, some of them came up to Edgar, reaching up to touch his face. Mrs. Hemplewhite placed herself between them and Edgar, explaining that his face had been badly hurt and they needed to be very careful. They quickly dropped their hands and moved back. She led him to a comfortable armchair surrounded by a collection of chairs, stools, and cushions. The moment Edgar sat down, the Needful Ones came clustering in, eager to hear his tale. Through the tight skin and damaged features a grin tried to rise. Edgar began to tell his story of the rescue, using many gestures and imitative sounds to take the place of the words he didn’t know. He spoke the language the Needful Ones knew well. Soon he stopped looking at Ulrik for comfort and support, getting lost in telling the story. He continued to delight his new friends as Ulrik left the room.

  Prester John caught Ulrik wandering through the hallways and said, “You look confused.”

  “I wasn’t sure where to go,” replied Ulrik.

  “We might as well get started on your education then. We’ll start with the chapel,” said Prester John, taking him through the turns of the hallways into the heart of the abbey. “The abbot informed me that your education was lacking in these matters. No matter, we all need to start sometime.

  “This is the narthex,” he explained as they entered a broad and open room. “We gather here before the service in order to get prepared. Here we might learn a new hymn, join in special prayers, or meditate.” The walls of the large, open room carried paint laid on by many hands—some talented and others delightful in innocence; the drawings of children (or those who remained children in adulthood) and those of an artful, patient hand. Parts of the story depicted were familiar to Ulrik, while others left him puzzled.

  Through the pictures he could hear Helga’s voice reading from the hidden book. He saw the world being created: sun, stars, planets, creatures of every kind, then a man crafted from the mud coming alive, and then a woman. Sadness entered at the end of a garden painted with dark, full tones but which also held a glimmer of light given to the woman in a promise, a promise that her womb would give birth to hope for all. A wash of blue symbolizing a flood gave way to a rainbow made by handprints in bright colors. Another section of the painting carried tales of wars and heroes, of kings, prophets, and betrayers. Aching and longing mingled with hope and joy- a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors mixed and churned into a dazzling display. As beautiful as it appeared, something profound was missing.

  “This is the nave, or the sanctuary,” Prester John said, opening a large, carved door. Lines and curves intersected on the door weaving an eternal pattern; the lines were without beginning or end, an endless flow. When Ulrik stepped through the door he saw the part of the story that was missing from the painting in the narthex.

  A large picture of a young man with beguiling features hung on the far wall. He was the same one Ulrik had glimpsed in the cabinet just before leaving the house of Johanna and Elijah. This time, however, no cupboard doors closed him off from sight. Ulrik stared at the picture and thought of Christian because the two men shared the same presence of peace, except that here, the intensity grew stronger and stronger. Peace flowed from the image and into the large room, filling the sanctuary without dominating it. Caught in its energy, Ulrik sat down on a nearby bench. All of his emotions seemed
to drain out of him while at the same time they were restored to him in double measure, leaving him both drained and exhilarated. He tried to hold back his tears but couldn’t, for they began to flow, slowly first and then in great sobs. He cradled himself with his arms, rocking back and forth, sobbing in anguish.

  Prester John, with his hands folded on his lap, sat next to Ulrik, and waited for the sobbing to stop. “You’ll be all right. Even the strongest have been turned to tears here,” he said. They sat in silence for several moments. Then Prester John broke the stillness, continuing the lecture he had begun in the narthex, “This is the nave, the center of our worship. We come in from the narthex and take our places around the altar.”

  Ulrik, having been so overtaken by the icon on the wall, hadn’t noticed anything else in the room. Under his teacher’s direction, he began to see more of the room. The altar looked much like the stone table seen in Aeolioanopolis except it was much larger and artistically sculpted, bearing carvings of men and women in a procession following a man carrying a great wooden beam. On the altar’s top was the same large book like the one in Aeolioanopolis, and next to it a large cup and plate graced the center.

  “We gather around the altar, to receive God’s gifts of Word and Sacrament,” lectured Prester John. Before he could continue, an old man wearing a robe similar to the abbot’s entered and crossed the nave. “That’s Father William, our organist. Chapel will be starting in a few minutes. We’d best wait in the narthex with the others,” said Prester John, rising and Ulrik followed him out of the nave.

  Many of the abbey residents had already gathered in the narthex, arriving singly, in pairs, and in groups. Ulrik recognized a few whom he had seen in the hallways and the refectory: Brother Salvador, Deaconess Rose, and others whose names he hadn’t caught. Down the hallway came a fluttering of noise as Mrs. Hemplewhite shepherded in the Needful Ones. Edgar stood above all of them with three new admirers showing him the way. “”Uley!” he cried. “Meet my friends,” he called out above the hushed murmurings of the crowd. Mrs. Hemplewhite went to him, motioned him down, and whispered in his ear. He quietly answered, “Sorry.” Still, he smiled at Ulrik as much as his damaged face would allow.

  The crowd quieted down when Abbot Peter, dressed in a long white robe, entered. They parted, allowing him to pass. He took his place in the narthex’s center and with arms outspread said, “The Lord be with you.”

  “And also with you,” came the common reply.

  “Again we want to welcome our special guests, Ulrik and Edgar,” he said. Heads turned to search for them. The abbot continued, “It looks like you’re getting settled in. Edgar; you’ve found some friends, that’s always a good sign. John, how is Ulrik doing? Very good. One more announcement before we begin. Since the wind has been blowing hard for the past several days, a large amount of sand has entered the back gardens; we’ll need as many hands as possible this afternoon to clean it out. A few minutes of work from all will lighten the load for the regular staff.” The abbot went on with directions pertaining to the morning’s prayer service, mentioning the introit, the gradual and the responsive psalms, all of which made little sense to Ulrik.

  “Don’t worry,” whispered Prester John to him “You’ll understand after a while. Follow along the best you can, you’ll gain it soon enough.”

  The abbot led the way into the nave. He stood in front of the altar, bowed, and then moved behind it to face the incoming crowd. Many paused a moment to gaze up at the image hanging behind the altar before taking their places in the benches arranged on both the left and right sides of the altar. Ulrik sat on one side with Edgar on the opposite. They caught each other’s eye and shared a confused expression. Father William began to play the organ. The notes from deep-throated pipes vibrated through Ulrik’s body, awakening him through and through.

  Abbot Peter started chanting particular phrases while congregation chanted its reply. Ulrik opened his mouth to reply but fell silent, not knowing the words. He listened more closely and soon he recognized bits and pieces of the chants. “I know these words,” he wanted to exclaim. “I learned these words in the kitchen. Helga used them during what she called our morning time.” What he had learned once in the kitchen connected him to the abbey’s morning service, yet here the words developed fullness and majesty. Tentatively, he attempted to join in, his voice stumbling and falling until embarrassment swept over him. He stopped and stood silent in the midst of others’ singing. He allowed the music and singing to flow over him, and for a moment it carried him along. The peace experienced in the kitchen became alive again like a long-distant friend, almost taking him home.

  After the service, Prester John led him into a shaded part of the garden. He carried two books in his hands, one older but less worn than the other. “The abbot thought you’d like to use this one for our studies,” he said, holding out the book for Ulrik to take. It was the one from his bed table, his mother’s.

  Ulrik opened the book and retraced the inscription. He wanted to draw her out from the words inscribed there. “I never knew her, really, except in the stories they told me.,” Ulrik said, his eyes locked on the inscription.

  “The abbot told me about you and your mother,” Prester John said. “We need to start your lessons.”

  Dutifully, Ulrik followed the instructions. He opened the Enchiridion to the first pages. Prester John said something about the book beginning with the commandments of God because those teach you of your need for God, but Ulrik wasn’t listening. He caressed each page with an awakened longing. Perhaps she had once been here, in the garden. Was this bench here when she was? He ran his hand along its edge. The bench’s worn edge told of many students who had come, studied, and gone. She may have been one of them. She may have sat right where I am this very minute, he thought.

  “You’re starting to get tired,” Prester John said, realizing Ulrik had not been paying attention. “We had better stop. Why don’t you go back inside and rest.” Prester John closed his book, rose and walked off, leaving Ulrik alone on the bench.

  Ulrik was not nearly as tired as Prester John wanted him to be, so instead of going back to his room, he explored more of the abbey. The size of the abbey, suggested by the maze of hallways and interconnected rooms, was revealed in greater detail when seen from outside. Deep verandas offering shade from the desert sun surrounded most of the buildings. Every building was painted the color of the desert, as if camouflaged. The size and variety of the structures astounded the young prince, for some were enormous with several attached buildings, others were tall, while still others were long and low, hugging the desert floor. Those distant from the main compound blended into the hills and dunes, disappearing into the desert.

  “Once they were all of many colors. That one on the left was a bright blue, and that long one over there was the green of alfalfa, and the top of that tall one was striped red and yellow. I was most proud of the job I did on that one. But that was before the time of hiding came upon us and wisdom directed us to paint them to match the sands,” explained an old man standing next to Ulrik.

  “Didn’t I see you playing the organ this morning?” asked the prince.

  “Oh, yes. It’s one of the last duties around here that I can still pull off. I didn’t mean to intrude when I started talking. I wanted you to know the abbey wasn’t always such a dull, drab brown. Dear me, I’m forgetting my manners. We get so few visitors these days. Let me introduce myself.” Out from a rather worn and paint splotched robe he extended his hand. “Father William they call me- although it has been a long time since I’ve done much pastor work,” he said and chuckled absent mindedly to himself. He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat to better shield off the sun, hiked up his robes and tottered off.

  To avoid the sun as it moved through the sky, Ulrik walked along under the many verandas which led him haphazardly to many parts of the abbey. Most of the compound consisted of barns, store rooms and the like. Then a familiar scent caught his nose, fresh bread straig
ht from the oven. The aroma led him along one of the verandas into a small building separate from the other abbey buildings where he discovered the abbey’s bakery. The heat of the courtyard open to the sun was mild compared to the heat in the bakery.

  “Damn! It’s still hotter’n hell in here,” exclaimed a man.

  “Henry, I wish you wouldn’t talk so,” said a woman.

  “Well, it is hot in here and we finished the baking hours ago. Ethel, when is this thing going to cool down?” said Henry.

  “You know it always takes longer this time of year,” replied Ethel.

  “Long or short, I need to clean out the damn thing!”

  “Henry!”

  “Alright, the blessed thing—the old biddy.” Henry kicked the oven, knocked a tile loose, and grabbed his foot. “Damn it! I think I broke it!”

  “The oven?” Ethel said, rushing over to him.

  “My foot, woman, my foot,” he said, as he sat down, took off his shoe and sock and stuck his foot in the air, waving it in her direction. “Come here and take a look.” She went over, sat in front of him, cradled his foot in her lap, and began examining it.

  Ulrik had been standing in the shade of the broad, open bakery door watching, unsure of whether or not to interrupt. His decision was made for him when the man said, “Ethel, we’ve got a visitor.”

  She stood up quickly, dropping her husband’s foot. “Woman! My foot!” he shouted.

  She straightened her sweaty apron and smoothed down her unruly hair. “You must be the young prince we’ve heard about.” she said, making an attempt at a curtsey. “Please to meet’cha,” she said, wiping her hand on the apron and holding it out to him. Ulrik crossed into the bakery and shook her hand which remained sweaty despite her attempt at drying it off.

  Henry put his sock and shoe back on and favoring it a bit, limped over and offered his hand but then pulled it back once he saw that it was covered with soot. “Sorry, sir, I was fixin’ on the oven. This old beast, she gives us fits and starts when it gets hot.”